


The Death I Know So Well

by Morgenleoht



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins & Hitmen, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Soldiers, Crimes & Criminals, Fantastic Racism, Graphic Description of Corpses, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied Necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Misogyny, Multi, Necromancy, Religious Persecution, Slavery, War Crimes, desecration of corpses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:57:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgenleoht/pseuds/Morgenleoht
Summary: Irkand Aurelius is a Knight-Brother of the Circle, an order in service to the Temple of Arkay tasked with hunting down necromancers and purging the undead. It's a better life than when he was an assassin in the name of Talos and it saved him from the fallout of his father's rebellion during the Great War.Now Alduin's returned and is bringing dragons back to life in blatant defiance of the natural order.It would have been nice if the gods had chosen some strapping young Nord instead of an ageing assassin...





	1. Last Rites

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, slavery, criminal acts, war crimes, desecration of corpses, religious persecution, homophobia, misogyny, and mentions of child abuse/neglect, torture, child soldiers, necrophilia, cannibalism and abuse of power. Irkand!AU with references to the plotline of Elder Scrolls Legends.

 

The rope finally broke after several minutes of sawing at it with a lousy iron dagger. The body fell with a dull thud, collapsing untidily in a sprawl of rotting limbs, something breaking open with an unpleasant squelch to release the stench of decay. First of four. Irkand supposed he should commend the Thalmor on their ability to find Jerall oaks sturdy enough to hold several Talos-worshipper corpses.

            _Fucking blackcoats,_ he thought disgustedly. When he was a Blade he’d never been particularly attached to Talos as god or man, but the sheer cruelty of the Justicars turned even his hardened stomach. Molag Bal likely took notes from Elenwen and her ilk.

            Better acquainted with the hempen rope now, he used his ebony wazikashi to cut down the other three. It would take tougher materials to dull the enchanted weapon’s edge but it was still some work. Nords were fucking heavy.

            _I wonder what those blue wraps mean?_ Rumour had spilled over the Jeralls to paint a picture of murder, sedition and treason in Skyrim. Irkand wasn’t surprised the Nords had rebelled. He just wondered why it took so long.

            There was plenty of fallen wood to build a pyre. No doubt the coven of necromancers was gloating at his falling behind to bury the desecrated the dead. Lu’ah al-Skaven, a renegade Priestess of the Redguard aspect of Arkay, had crossed over into Skyrim. The High Prelate didn’t give a damn about the College of Whispers’ request to leave her execution to them. He dispatched Irkand, the deadliest of the Knights of the Circle, to remove her from the mortal coil. These necromancers had just gotten in the way.

            Arkay’s Fire consumed the corpses quickly and Irkand murmured the appropriate prayers. It was awkward being across the border – illegally no less – in Sigdrifa’s home Hold. The Stormsword held grudges and in this case, the feeling was entirely mutual. Lia deserved a better end than the one she got. All the Blades did.

            Once the dead were ashes, Irkand headed for the road. Lu’ah was headed east towards the more isolated part of Skyrim. If things were as chaotic as rumour claimed, she’d have plenty of corpses to fuck around with. The Nord habit of embalming their dead was a fucking pain in the arse for necromancer-hunters like himself.

            “Halt!” bellowed a Nord in Imperial armour as he reached the road. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

            “I’m a Knight-Brother of the Order of the Circle,” Irkand announced calmly. “There’s a band of necromancers heading east that I’m hunting.”

            “One man?” the Nord asked sceptically. He was heavy-shouldered and plain-faced, tenor soft for such a big man.

            “I’m Irkand Aurelius and the Thalmor used to call me the Blade of Death.” He smiled thinly as the Nord shifted uncomfortably.

            “The necromancers will have to wait,” announced a West Weald brogue from the mass of soldiers behind the Quaestor. “We’ve got an execution to perform and we could use a Priest of Arkay.”

            Irkand sighed. “Technically, I’m a Knight of Arkay.”

            “I don’t fucking care,” General Marcus Tullius said bluntly. “You walked into a carnificina. Cooperate or I’ll have to assume you’re wanting to assist your former sister-in-law’s second husband and treat you accordingly.”

            “The only thing I would assist Sigdrifa Stormsword with is entrance into the next life,” Irkand said flatly. “I’m a little surprised she was willing to marry again, let alone find someone happy to do so.”

            Tullius nodded to the spare horse tied to another. “She’s about to be a widow.”

            Irkand mounted and eyed the prisoners being transported on carts. Most wore bearskins and blue wraps but for the one in plate mail who was gagged. “I heard there was a rebellion. If you’re in Skyrim…”

            “The rebellion will soon be over,” Tullius assured him. “Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebel scum will die at Helgen.”

            “I trust you’ll give them last rites,” Irkand noted as the convoy began to move again. “That’s how the necromancers got ahead of me – they deliberately led me past a whole oak tree of hung rebels.”

            “Fucking Thalmor,” Tullius muttered. “Technically, giving traitors last rites after the fact is treason, Irkand. But I’m not going to offend Arkay for the sake of a technicality.”

            “Wise idea,” Irkand observed dryly.

            They rode along for a while as desultory chatter was shared by the cart containing Ulfric Stormcloak. Finally, one of the Stormcloaks, a sun-blond man with handsome features, called out to Irkand. “Did you really bury our brothers?”

            “I burned them. Standard Circle practice,” Irkand assured him. “The Nord obsession with embalming makes my life a lot harder, you know.”

            The Nord smirked a little. “How can Kyne take someone to Sovngarde if She doesn’t recognise their faces?”

            “She’s the Hawk-Goddess. I’m sure She’s adaptable,” Irkand said wryly. “So, why’s Ulfric gagged?”

            “Because he’s a Tongue in the old way and would Shout Tullius arse over tit if he wasn’t gagged,” the Nord responded.

            “Wait. I think I remember him.” Irkand sighed and shook his head. “From Elenwen’s clutches to the chopping block with a marriage to the Stormsword in between. Poor bastard should have stayed up on the mountain.”

            “We were fighting for Talos,” the blond said flatly. “How’d you feel if they banned the worship of Arkay?”

            “Arkay might be the Mortals’ God but He doesn’t challenge mer notions of supremacy,” Irkand pointed out.

            “You shouldn’t sympathise with Ulfric or the rebels,” the Quaestor said as he rode up to join Irkand. “Ulfric Shouted High King Torygg, a boy holding a butter knife, to pieces in front of his pregnant wife.”

            “It was a challenge in the old way!” the sun-blond Nord snapped. “I’d think you of all people would understand that, Hadvar.”

            “Fuck off, Ralof,” the Quaestor said pleasantly. “I’m not the one who got his arse exiled from Whiterun.”

            “I hope the General bought you dinner before you let him fuck you for that Quaestor’s tunic,” Ralof drawled.

            “Did Ulfric do the same before he gave you your heiður-hljómsveitir?” Hadvar sneered back.

            _“Nords,”_ Irkand said, rolling his eyes.

            Tullius grunted in agreement as they came to a walled town surrounding a fortress. “They’re one bad day from reverting to barbarism, I swear.”

            “I honestly thought they were already there.” Irkand felt some sympathy for the Nords but Arkay’s mercy, they had a streak of idiocy a mile wide.

            The General laughed shortly. “Not all of them are bad. Legate Rikke and Quaestor Hadvar are particularly competent. Perhaps without Ulfric to rile them up, they’ll settle down.”

            “Rikke’s still alive?” Irkand observed in some amazement. “I haven’t seen her since the Battle of the Red Ring.”

            “Legate Primus no less.” Tullius sighed. “She makes sure I don’t piss off the Jarls too much. Bloody Nords and their bloody sense of honour.”

            “Amen,” Irkand said fervently. “A-fucking-men.”

            “Thank you for cooperating,” Tullius continued. “I’m of an age where it’s not wise to piss off Arkay but it took a carnificina to bring that bastard Ulfric in.”

            “I’m not happy about certain realities of the world after the Great War, but I’m not going to die for a god I didn’t much care for when I was a Blade,” Irkand said. “In the name of Talos, I was little more than a murderer. For Talos, my father got himself, my brother and my niece killed by Thalmor. I’ll bury Talosians with the appropriate rites but I’ll be damned before I ever kill in the name of Talos again.”

            “Exactly.”

            The carts rolled into the courtyard where the executioner and the block waited. “Give them their last rites,” Tullius told Irkand.

            “No trial?” he asked as he dismounted from the horse.

            “It’s not pretty but we don’t have a choice. Elenwen already tried to take them off our hands once.”

            “Not even a trial!” spat Ralof. “You fucking Imperial coward!”

            “If you want to be tortured within an inch of your life and then spend an eternity in the Soul Cairn after your black soul gem was used to heat Elenwen’s privy seat, be my fucking guest,” Irkand told him bluntly. “I don’t much like this myself but it’s the best option for you and your friends.”

            Ulfric gave him a green-eyed glare as he was marched off the cart and Irkand sighed. Fucking idiot Nords.

            Once they were lined up, names were recited and Tullius read Ulfric a lecture about treason, murder and usurpation. The man _had_ been busy while being married to Sigdrifa, that was for certain.

            Irkand was beginning last rites for the condemned when one of the Nords exclaimed, “For the love of Talos, shut up and get on with it!” He strode towards the headman’s block… until Irkand cast Paralyse on him.

            “Sit down, shut the fuck up and let me finish the rites,” he told the Stormcloak. “Sovngarde’s still going to be there in five minutes.”

            “I’ve always respected that man,” Tullius told a flabbergasted Hadvar. “I was relieved when the Emperor was able to spare him after the Aurelii’s treason.”

            “He doesn’t take shit, does he?” the Quaestor asked.

            “No, he doesn’t.”

            Irkand was just winding up the rites when a terrible cry echoed across the Jeralls. That part of him connected to Arkay strongly suggested he find shelter _now_. “General,” he said aloud. “I don’t know what that was but I have a feeling we better get inside-“

            A big black dragon landed on the top of the tower overlooking the courtyard. It Shouted and the world turned into fire.

            “Flee!” Irkand yelled over the sudden chaos. “If that thing’s what I think it is, our weapons will do nothing!”

            Tullius was no idiot. He ordered his men to get the civilians to safety. Irkand bolted for the tower.

            “Was that really a dragon?” Ralof was asking as Ulfric pulled his gag off.

            “Not just any dragon but the fucking World-Eater itself,” Irkand said grimly. “It’s every man for himself at the moment and for the love of Arkay, don’t die in battle.”

            “Why?” Ralof asked in disbelief.

            “Because Blades lore states that Alduin likes to snack on the souls of heroes in Sovngarde.” Irkand fixed the would-be martyr who he’d paralysed with a pointed stare. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

            “He’s right.” Ulfric spoke for the first time, his baritone rumbling with the edge of power. “Now move it!”

            Irkand decided to bolt for the top of the tower. Then Alduin stuck his snout through the window and barbecued the hapless Stormcloak just in front of the Knight.

            And to think this morning necromancers were the worst of his concerns…


	2. People from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of imprisonment, child abuse/neglect/abandonment, religious persecution and war crimes.

 

Hadvar emerged from the bear’s den, panting in exhaustion and fear he tried to conceal from the man on his heels. They ducked behind a boulder as the black dragon Irkand Aurelius called the World-Eater soared to the northwest, possibly to savage Riverwood and Whiterun. What was worse almost was the escape of Ulfric, Ralof and the other rebels. Even a hardened Legionnaire like himself flinched at the thought of the end times, but the Redguard warrior looked more irritated than anything else.

            He cast a side-eyed glance in Irkand’s direction. Shorter than your typical Redguard with a Cyrod’s stocky build and beaky nose, only his iron-grey hair and weathered complexion gave hint to the man’s true age. There were Companions of Jorrvaskr who’d kill for the quality of muscle and economic grace he displayed, assassins who would envy the precision of his executions, and Generals who would almost die to have such a killer in their ranks. And all that skill was dedicated to Arkay.

            _Better the god of death than the Dark Brotherhood,_ Hadvar mused.

            “He’s gone for now,” Irkand said, shading his eyes with one callused hand. His tenor was light with a kind of oily smoothness to it, but there was nothing smarmy about it. The accent was less clipped than a Colovian’s but curter than a Nibenese with none of the burr Hadvar recalled from the Bruma folk. “Life’s certainly about to get interesting for some strapping Nord.”

            “What do you mean?” Hadvar asked, rising to his feet and stretching to ease the kinks. A good soldier took care of his body as he did his weapons.

            “On the whole, most Dragonborn are Nord or with a Nord in their near ancestry,” the Redguard explained. “Given the way that bastard tracked us…”

            He let the words trail off and shook his head. “We’ll find out who the Last Dragonborn is soon enough. I need to find the nearest Temple of Arkay and seek religious guidance. Necromancers are bad but the World-Eater is infinitely worse.”

            “Falkreath but given your feelings on Sigdrifa Stormsword, that mightn’t be the best place for you,” Hadvar replied. “We need to warn Whiterun anyway and it’ll come better from you than a Legionnaire. Balgruuf hasn’t chosen a side in the civil war.”

            Irkand grimaced. “I suppose you’re right. I’ve never been this side of the Jeralls.”

            “My home village is on the way and I need to warn my uncle.” Hadvar echoed Irkand’s grimace. “The hetwoman too, I suppose. She’s Ralof’s sister.”

            “Alduin respects no side of the war,” the ex-Blade said softly. “You may need to seek a truce.”

            “I’d prefer Ulfric’s head on a platter,” Hadvar said sourly.

            “No. Better Sigdrifa’s than his.” Irkand adjusted his pack. “Let’s go. I’ll let you lead me to this Riverwood.”

            They walked in silence before Hadvar dared a question. “Why do you hate Sigdrifa so much?”

            “Because she is needlessly cruel and ruthless, using faith to justify it,” Irkand said simply. “She was married to my brother Rustem and they had a child together. Aurelia Callaina, a little girl who was sickly as a child and therefore wasn’t tough enough to be a real Nord in Sigdrifa’s eyes. So the Stormsword made her stand outside in all kinds of weather and beat her.”

            “The Kreathlings run to sickness as children,” Hadvar pointed out. “Particularly the Jarl’s family. If they survive, they thrive. The story goes the Stormsword herself was sent to the Shieldmaidens because she was sickly.”

            Irkand scowled a little. “Typical. Well, my father and brother got the bright idea to mount a rebellion in the wake of the White-Gold Concordat – but I suspect it had been planned for a while. Father didn’t negotiate a marriage with the Jarl on the other side of the Pale Pass for nothing.”

            “The Bruma Rebellion,” Hadvar said softly.

            “Indeed. Titus Mede sat back and let the Thalmor do as they pleased for it. Sigdrifa fled through an old pass with Ulfric, who we’d managed to save from the Thalmor prison camps.”

            “Thanks for that,” Hadvar said dryly.

            “If it wasn’t Ulfric, it would have been Sigdrifa on her own. Though fewer would follow her since she has the grace and charm of a dead mudcrab.” They walked on a bit more, almost to the Guardian Stones. “Lia, my niece, died in the siege. I suspect Acilius or someone else gave her a mercy strike. Kinder than what the Thalmor would have done to her.”

            Hadvar chewed on his lip. “Very few people, particularly in the Old Holds, know that Sigdrifa was married to your brother.”

            “I guess she and Dengeir buried the truth so deep only myself, perhaps your Legate Rikke and an old friend of mine I hear is in Jorrvaskr these days, and they know,” the Knight-Brother said sadly. “I was spared because I fought in the Battle of the Red Ring and had nothing to do with the treason. Titus even let me bury the dead Blades with honour because most of them were good people manipulated by a fool.”

            He slanted a gaze at Hadvar. “How did _you_ know about the marriage?”

            “I’m Rikke’s right-hand Quaestor,” Hadvar admitted. “My job’s to find whatever weapon we can to end this damned war.”

            “Fair enough.” They reached the Guardian Stones. “What are these?”

            “The Doomstones,” Hadvar explained. “It’s said that if you touch one, you become a warrior, a mage or a thief.”

            Irkand scratched his stubbled chin. “I think I’ll pass. I was born under the Shadow and it suits me just fine.”

            “A man can change his own destiny,” Hadvar said, touching the Warrior Stone and watching light spear from it. No self-respecting Nord would choose anything else, though a couple hunters switched between Thief and Warrior. Mage was encrusted with moss, it hadn’t been touched for so long.

            “I’m too old,” the Knight said simply. “Let’s go. I need a drink after today.”

            Two dead wolves later, they reached Riverwood, where Irkand peeled off from Hadvar with a murmured word of farewell. He headed towards the inn and the Quaestor sighed. What a loss for the Empire that such a man had taken religious vows.

            Now he had to warn his uncle about the dragons. Nothing was ever easy.

…

Finding Delphine Revanche running a pokey little inn in a pokey little lumber village in the arse-end of Skyrim was the final surprise for Irkand on this day of wonders and terrors. He nodded to the woman, paid for a room and retreated to the private space. He didn’t need reminders of the Blades, not today.

            Of course, she ignored that. “So you’re that visitor been poking around.”

            “Your accent’s worse than your harmless innkeeper act,” he said sourly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. The World-Eater’s back.”

            “That explains your presence here,” Delphine sighed. She’d closed the door as the crowd got rowdier. “I… came here. Arius’ orders. He said the Dragonborn would come here eventually because of Bleak Falls Barrow.”

            Irkand recalled the tomb on the mountain Hadvar pointed out. “I’m a Knight-Brother of the Order of the Circle. The Blades are dead and the Prophecy of the Dragonborn isn’t my problem.”

            “You piss on the memory of our brothers so easily?” Delphine asked, eyes narrowed.

            “I fucking _buried_ most of them. They should have scattered once word of the White-Golf Concordat reached them, not launched a fucking rebellion that got everyone killed.” Irkand met Delphine’s hard gaze. “Follow the Prophecy if you must but let the past die. Bury it.”

            “Arius was an idiot and Sigdrifa screwed us over,” Delphine said bitterly. “Dengeir didn’t send us aid.”

            “I know _that_. The only reason I wasn’t crucified alongside my father and brother was because I helped win the Battle of the Red Ring and knew nothing of the rebellion, even under truth-spell from the Priests of Stendarr.” Irkand grabbed the bottle on the table next to him and downed it. “I have other duties. Don’t count on my help for this.”

            “I never could rely on you for anything, could I?” Delphine countered. “At least Rustem was reliable.”

            “You left me for a married man, for my own brother.” Irkand shrugged and dumped his pack on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Talos is dead and good riddance to the man. I have necromancers to kill, so I’ll be leaving in the morning.”

            Delphine snorted. “If you think you can escape a prophecy that easily, you’ve got another thing coming.”

            Irkand smiled thinly at her. “I’m sure the strapping Nord who’s Dragonborn is more amenable to manipulation. Good luck with that. You’ve always wanted to stand at the heart of power, just behind the throne.”

            Delphine scowled and turned away. Thank Arkay she was gone. He didn’t need to see her today.

            He left the next morning before dawn and reached the fields of Whiterun, a rich and prosperous trade city, by the first amber light in the sky. Three warriors were squaring off against something big and ugly in someone’s cabbage patch. Until now, Irkand had thought giants lived in fairy tales.

            _Finally, something I_ haven’t _killed,_ he thought as he closed in, drawing his wazikashis. Leap over the fence, roll over the cabbages and come to his feet with a double outward horizontal slash that hamstrung the beast. It fell forward with a cry of pain, forcing the big warrior engaging it from the front to fall back, setting the pommel of his greatsword in the ground so that the giant’s weight impaled itself on the blade. Excellent steel; the weapon should have broken under such a mass but the point emerged from the creature’s back instead.

            “Only you could say hello by hamstringing a giant,” Skjor the Scarred, much older, balder and minus an eye, said with a grin.

            “Only you would be trying to kill one in the first place,” Irkand drawled, wiping off his blades on the creature’s fur loincloth. “I’m guessing he wasn’t a father wanting to have words because of your conduct with his daughter.”

            The youngest of the three, a vaguely familiar Nibenese girl, made a choking noise as Skjor roared with laughter. “I’m married these days!”

            “And my father wasn’t a giant,” observed a redhead in tight green leather amusedly. “One of your old friends, Skjor?”

            “This, my darling, is Irkand Aurelius,” Skjor said smilingly. “I owe him my life a few times over.”

            “And you saved me a few times, so we’re even.” Irkand sheathed his weapons and clasped Skjor’s arms with a grin. “I trust you thank the gods every day that a fine woman like your wife has the single flaw of having bad taste in men?”

            “Of course, of course,” Skjor confirmed. “Aela and I have been together for fifteen years now.”

            “Congratulations. I’ll try to find a belated wedding present.” Irkand bowed a little to Aela. “I’m Knight-Brother Irkand Aurelius of the Order of the Knights of the Circle.”

            “Arkay, eh?” Aela inclined her head. “There are worse gods out there. I thought you were a Blade?”

            “I was, once.” Irkand sighed. He hated his past coming up. “They died with Talos.”

            “And good riddance,” Skjor said. “You were always too good for them.”

            He nodded to the girl. “Ria, go tell Severio it’s done and harvest what you can from the giant. We’ll be up in Jorrvaskr.”

            Ria nodded, flashing Irkand a thoughtful look. Imperial nobility; she had the bearing.

            “Good whelp there. Just needs the arrogance knocked out of her,” Skjor explained. “What brings you to Skyrim?”

            “Necromancers. But then a dragon hit Helgen.” Irkand started to walk to the city with the pair. “Not just any dragon but the World-Eater himself.”

            “We saw him last night,” Aela confirmed. “Bastard ate the mammoths and drove the giant into the fields.”

            “You’re remarkably calm about this,” Irkand observed.

            “The Last Dragonborn will come. If the gods are kind, they’ll be an honourable sort, maybe even worthy of the Companions,” Skjor said. “Balgruuf’s already martialling scouts and a firefighting brigade.”

            “I better give the man some useful intelligence,” Irkand pointed out. “Will he meet with a Knight of Arkay?”

            “Maybe not, but he can damned well meet with the Harbinger,” Skjor said bluntly. “That’s me, by the way.”

            “Should I offer congratulations or commiserations to the Companions?”

            Skjor snorted. “That depends on who you ask. By the way, if you don’t visit Jorrvaskr, I’ll be very insulted.”

            “How could I turn down such a gracious invitation?” Irkand drawled. “But how will your Companions feel when I kick your arse around the battle-circle?”

            “I’ve picked up a few tricks since the Great War. Besides, you’re looking a little decrepit.”

            “Not as decrepit as you.” He’d missed the banter with Skjor and Rikke.

            “You two are like squabbling brats,” Aela observed blandly.

            Irkand grinned. “I know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	3. Equals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, desecration of corpses, fantastic racism and mentions of implied necrophilia.

 

Balgruuf was a tall, rangy Nord with a long goatee and enough jewels to outfit a half-dozen Priestesses of Dibella. Irkand inclined his head politely and noted the muscle beneath the fat of good living, the keenness in his blue eyes and the striking resemblance to Ulfric’s friend Ralof.

            “So, you were at Helgen,” Balgruuf drawled in a more aristocratic version of Ralof’s burred accent.

            “Yes. Ulfric and a few of his friends were about to become acquainted with the headsman’s axe when the World-Eater showed up, set everything on fire and chased us around the village,” Irkand responded mildly. “I went to Riverwood, overnighted there and came here to let you know what was going on.”

            “Of course Ulfric would be involved in this,” Balgruuf sighed. “What brings a Knight of Arkay to Whiterun?”

            “I was chasing necromancers when the Legion rudely interrupted me and dragged me along to Helgen on pain of the carnificina,” Irkand explained. “Now I’ve informed you of the dragon attack, I’ll be returning to said duty. They’re part of a greater coven joining together under a renegade Priestess of Tu’whacca who has been clinically described as ‘batshit insane’ by the College of Whispers.”

            Balgruuf gave Skjor a jaundiced glance. “This man’s a friend of yours, Harbinger?”

            “Yes,” the Companion said. “I’d trust him as much as any member of Jorrvaskr’s Circle.”

            The Jarl of Whiterun grunted. “He’s not very respectful.”

            “I’m a killer, Jarl, not a courtier,” Irkand pointed out.

            Balgruuf snorted. “That’s obvious. I have a thing to ask of you and the Harbinger that’s related to dragons.”

            “Ah, I’m hunting necromancers, remember?”

            “I’m sure you can spare some time to deal with a tomb full of undead guarding a vital piece of information concerning dragons,” Balgruuf countered as he stood. “Follow me. Farengar can give you more details.”

            “I see ‘ask’ means ‘order’ around here,” Irkand muttered as they obeyed.

            “Balgruuf’s an autocratic bastard at times but he’s probably the best Jarl in Skyrim,” Skjor murmured. “If the Moot had half a collective brain, they’d make him High King.”

            Irkand refrained from pointing out that a Nord with half a brain was like an honest Khajiit – something so rare that if encountered, it should be marked in the calendar as a national holiday.

            Farengar was a pudgy wizard with sideburns to rival the Grand Prelate’s and the kind of unctuous voice Irkand hated on principle. “Ah yes, I have a job for you. It involves crawling through a mouldering tomb full of draugr and desecrating a Dragon Priest’s sarcophagus. At Bleak Falls Barrow.”

            Irkand sighed. “Ah, the Dragonstone.”

            Farengar blinked. “How did you know that?”

            “He’s a Knight of Arkay and a former Blade,” Skjor explained.

            “Oh. Well, I suppose he’ll be moderately useful.” Farengar turned away. “Get that Dragonstone. We need it quickly.”

            Irkand reminded himself that punching the wizard for being a rude prick was socially unacceptable.

            “Not until a fee’s agreed on,” Skjor said firmly. “The Companions don’t work for free.”

            “Free run of the enchanted weapons and armour in my armoury,” Balgruuf said immediately. “Plus any loot you find in the tomb.”

            “Done.” Skjor nodded as Irkand sighed. “We’ll get that done today.”

            “Excellent.”

            On the way down the stairs from Dragonsreach, Irkand flashed Skjor a look. “If I’m doing this, I want a share of the loot.”

            “Of course.” Skjor rubbed his neck. “So what’s this Dragonstone?”

            “Map of all the dragon burials in Skyrim, if I recall correctly.” Irkand sighed. “I’ll help you with the corpses. Hadvar said sometimes they liked to go walking.”

            “He’s exaggerating a bit, but I’d feel easier removing a ready source of necromantic minions.” Skjor glanced at him. “So, this necromancer you’re chasing?”

            “Lu’ah al-Skaven. Lost her husband in the Great War and they burned the corpse.” Irkand shook his head. “Then the Empire essentially told Hammerfell to go fuck itself. She tried to talk her fellow Priests into using the war-dead to destroy the Thalmor but they were rightfully horrified. Then she made the same offer to the Empire and Titus Mede declined. Apparently she’s going to approach Ulfric and his friends. The College of Whispers told the Temple of Arkay they’d take care of her but the Grand Prelate sent me instead.”

            “Ulfric won’t do it,” Skjor said immediately.

            “Sigdrifa might if she can get away with it.”

            Skjor abruptly went pale. “That… Fuck. You might have explained a dream I had.”

            “I don’t recall you being prescient.” They passed the shrieking Priest of Talos.

            “It’s a gift all Harbingers possess, to sense dangers to Skyrim. I dreamed of the dead rising under a storm.” Skjor shuddered. “Not a pleasant vision.”

            “I can bet.” Irkand sighed explosively. “Once we have the Dragonstone, I’ll get on to tracking that bitch.”

            “If circumstances permit, we’ll give you a hand. Necromancers are breeding like flies and I’m beginning to get a good idea of why.”

            Jorrvaskr was a stereotypical meadhall complete with faded banners, ancient weapons and Nords lounging about drinking mead. “We have jobs, people!” Skjor announced crisply. “Farkas, Vilkas, you two are off to Bleak Falls Barrow with Irkand here. The Jarl’s court wizard wants a Dragon Priest artefact. Aela, you and Athis are off to track a necromancer named Lu’ah al-Skaven. Be careful, she’s insane. Don’t engage, but report back here.”

            Farkas was thick where his twin brother Vilkas was thin, a shaggy friendly sheepdog to the lean mean wolf. “So you hamstrung a giant with one strike?” the latter asked.

            “Technically two,” Irkand said modestly. “I’m also a Knight of the Circle of Arkay. Don’t worry, I won’t let the draugr eat you.”

            “Don’t mind him, Vilkas,” Skjor assured the mercenary. “Irkand’s an arsehole at times.”

            “So am I,” Vilkas grated.

            “Oh good,” Irkand said cheerfully. “I do like sparring with equals.”

…

Lu’ah al-Skaven was an older woman with the burning gaze of a fanatic. Sigdrifa sat down quite calmly at the table and gestured to the seat across from her. “Ulfric may be short-sighted, but I’m not,” she rasped.

            “Men think with their hearts, not their heads,” Lu’ah agreed as she sat. “So you’re in agreeance with my proposal?”

            “For the most part, yes. While I have no personal issue with necromancy – Talos certainly made use of it – I’ll have to ask you to not raise the battle-dead of the Old Holds or Falkreath because Skyrim will collectively shit itself.” Sigdrifa poured them both some mead. “Legion’s fair game, as are those who died the winter, sea or straw deaths. No children either because the sentimentalists will never shut up about it.”

            Lu’ah spread her hands. “Even with those restrictions, there’s enough draugr to fuel a dozen armies. I must commend your embalmers.”

            “The old ones knew how to preserve a corpse,” Sigdrifa agreed. “Those ‘restrictions’ you speak of are the traditional ones. Nords meddle with the dead more than they’ll admit.”

            “Tell me about it,” Lu’ah agreed. “You’d be surprised at some of the… _requests_ … I’ve received over the years.”

            “Some people will fuck anything,” Sigdrifa sighed. “As for black soul gems, keep them to the Legion dead.”

            “That’s more leeway than I expected,” Lu’ah said gleefully. “Some of those Legionnaires are Nords.”

            “They’re traitors to their gods and people,” Sigdrifa said simply. “They don’t deserve Sovngarde.”

            “Works for me.” Lu’ah sipped some of her mead and grimaced. “How can you drink this?”

            “That’s Black-Briar mead. Maven’s an Imperial-loving hag who personally pisses in each barrel, I think.” Sigdrifa smirked. “But I got it from an Imperial supply train, so I make use of it.”

            “Waste not, want not?” Lu’ah asked.

            “Something like that.”

            They talked idly over potential uses for draugr shock troops until a group of bedraggled-looking necromancers arrived at Anvilsund. “Oh thank Mannimarco you’re here,” said a pasty yellow Altmer. “We’ve been running since the border.”

            “You look exhausted,” Lu’ah said gently. “Come, sit down. The mead tastes like piss but it’ll restore you.”

            The Altmer accepted a flagon and drank deeply. “Thank you, Lu’ah. The College got wind of your plans, as did the Temple of Arkay.”

            “The College of Whispers has no jurisdiction here,” Sigdrifa told the goldskin.

            “She’s a ranking Stormcloak officer with the brains to make use of our talents within… limits,” Lu’ah soothed the wary womer. “No Stormcloak battle-dead, no children. Legion soldiers can be soul-trapped.”

            “Perfectly fine by me, lady,” the womer said. “I’m Lithanriel.”

            “Sigdrifa Stormsword,” the Nord replied. “And if you breathe that name outside of Anvilsund…”

            Lithanriel shook her head. “I won’t. I’m part of Tamusen, the Dawn’s Rising. Think the Altmer equivalent of the Stormcloaks.”

            “Ah, we have mutual enemies.” Sigdrifa smiled thinly. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll have people patrolling the roads.”

            “It isn’t the College I’m not worried about,” Lithanriel explained. “The Circle of Arkay’s sent their best murderer.”

            “Irkand Aurelius?” Lu’ah looked worried. “Shit.”

            Sigdrifa blinked. “Irkand Aurelius?”

            “Ex-Blade who was apparently a major figure in the Battle of the Red Ring,” Lithanriel explained. “Only survivor of the Aurelii Uprising because he wasn’t there. The Temple of Arkay took him in and practitioners of the Art of the Dead have been running scared ever since.”

            “Shit,” Lu’ah repeated. “The man’s implacable.”

            Sigdrifa could agree with that. “I have connections,” she said simply. “I know the man and have no fondness of him myself.”

            “I hope your connections include the Dark Brotherhood,” Lithanriel said sourly. “I don’t think anything else could kill that man.”

            Sigdrifa simply smiled.


	4. Blasphemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, desecration of corpses and fantastic racism. My Farkas and Vilkas are in their late thirties to early forties. Irkand’s voice is very similar to Adam Driver’s, only not as deep. Using the Thu’um Legacy Translator.

 

“I wish you Nords burned your fucking dead!”

            Vilkas wasn’t a devout man by any means, even after being cleansed of the beast blood, but he was fairly certain a holy warrior wasn’t supposed to curse like a sailor during battle. Irkand Aurelius was easily ten, fifteen years older but had the physique of a much younger man. With an arse to match under the silver-studded black leather he wore.

            “The Companions do burn our dead,” Farkas rumbled after smashing in another draugr’s skull.

            “Nords with common sense. What a novelty.” Irkand’s ebony daggers burned with white-gold fire as he turned two more draugr into ash.

            “Skjor says I’m the most sensible of the Companions,” Farkas told him. “Not the smartest, but the most sensible.”

            “That’s quite a compliment,” Irkand said dryly, “Seeing as Skjor never had much sense to begin with.”

            Farkas grinned. “He’s got Aela.”

            Vilkas scowled at the Knight. “You shouldn’t mock the Harbinger, Redguard.”

            “We spent half the Great War insulting each other, Vilkas.” Irkand walked up towards the puzzle door, golden claw in hand. They’d be able to get a bit of extra coin from Lucan in Riverwood for retrieving his favourite ornament. “I wager we’ll spend the next few months insulting each other too.”

            “You should show more respect.”

            “And you should remove the stick from your arse to make yourself more pleasant to be around.”

            That smooth oiled-silk voice was mildly amused. Irkand didn’t even bother turning around as he examined the golden claw, wheeling stone circles to match the pattern. Vilkas almost growled as he imagined wrestling the Redguard to the ground and-

            _Fuuuucccckkkk,_ he thought as he realised why Irkand pissed him off so much. Handsome older men were always his thing and Irkand Aurelius was a fine specimen of a man. Even if he was a sarcastic arrogant prick.

            Farkas huffed and Vilkas inwardly cursed his brother’s keen nose, refusal to leave the beast blood behind, and general amusement at his expense. If only the Companions knew who was responsible for the pranks that plagued Jorrvaskr.

            The puzzle-door opened and Irkand clenched his fists to glow with white-gold light. “I’m told the king-draugr’s the worst of the lot,” he explained.

            “Some of them can even Shout,” Farkas confirmed.

            “Oh lovely. Going arse over head is just how I want to end my day.”

            Vilkas could live with that.

            They neared the sarcophagus and Irkand walked towards the Word Wall. “Blah, blah, force of unending darkness, blah, blah, blah,” he said nonchalantly. “Odd. I was never told particular words glow.”

            He was so entranced by the glowing word that the king-draugr nearly brained him. His spell drove the beast away and broke the trance, allowing Irkand to dodge the next blow. Vilkas cursed the man for a fool and broke the king-draugr’s legs.

            It took remarkably little time for the trio to kill the Dragon Priest or whatever it was. “No mask,” Irkand noted as he kicked the head away from the rest of the body. “Dragon Priests had magical masks.”

            “What the fuck was wrong with you back there?” Vilkas suddenly spat, striding up to Irkand. “You nearly got killed!”

            “I don’t fucking know!” Irkand shot back. “The word glowed and there was some kind of… rush? I don’t know how to describe it.”

            Farkas’ meaty paw separated the two. “Fuck it or fight it out but not here,” the big man ordered. “We gotta collect this Dragonstone and the loot. Overnight in Riverwood?”

            “Since Lucan wants his claw back, sure,” Vilkas said, throwing a glare at his brother.

            “Fuck it out?” Irkand’s voice was incredulous. “Why would I want to fuck such an arrogant sack of shit like your brother?”

            “Because you two are acting like you’re in heat,” Farkas rumbled. “I don’t care. But now’s not the time to wave your dicks around in an attempt to impress each other.”

            “I doubt Vilkas has something to impress me with, judging by the way he compensates with that sword-“

            Vilkas’ fist connected with that handsome jaw. He would have followed it up with another blow but his brother hauled him back by the back of his tunic. One-handed. Fucking show-off.

            Irkand stepped in with what looked to be a groin shot, but Farkas’ other hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and lifted him from the floor by a good foot. “Don’t make me bang your heads together like cymbals,” the werewolf growled. “Unless you wanna kiss?”  
            “Fuck you!” spat the Knight of Arkay.

            “No thanks.” Farkas dropped them both like sacks of barley. “Get your shit together and let’s go.”

            Vilkas tried not to glare at Farkas. He was acting unprofessional. But Oblivion would freeze over before he fucked Irkand, no matter how much of a handsome bastard he was.

…

Vilkas was handsome in a surly way with those smouldering iron-grey eyes and full lips, Irkand had to admit, but he was more of an arsehole than even he could tolerate. They booked out the rooms at Delphine’s inn and when Irkand asked where the innkeeper was, the sour Nord who tended the bar ignored the question. Probably setting things up to screw the poor Dragonborn over, he supposed.

            It was good to have the best bed in the house, however, genuine wool-stuffed mattress, linen sheets and goatswool blanket. The minor rejuvenation spells he’d learned during training only slowed the ageing process, not averted it, and some days Irkand felt his age. He bought some more of that Black-Briar mead – pricy but good – and drank it slowly as he observed the crowd.

            Farkas was garnering the attentions of the sole unmarried woman in Riverwood, a blowsy girl named Camilla Valeria, as a blunt-faced blond Nord and a white-haired Bosmer glared at the Companion. Vilkas was sulking in the corner, mug of ale in one hand and a book in the other.

            Lucan Valerius sat next to Irkand, dumping a heavy bag on the bar. “Healing potions, a cure disease potion, an Amulet of Arkay and enough food for three days,” the shopkeeper said cheerfully.

            “Thank you,” Irkand said sincerely.

            “Least I can do for someone who returned my claw to me,” Lucan said with a smile. He was attractive in a rough provincial kind of way.

            Irkand returned the smile, ignoring Vilkas’ glare. “So where are you from?” he asked, gesturing to Orgnar for another flagon of Black-Briar mead.

            “Bruma,” Lucan sighed. “It’s a shithole.”

            “I’m from there too,” Irkand agreed. “I know.”

            Orgnar delivered the Black-Briar mead for Lucan. “Try not to get drunk this time,” the surly lout growled.

            “Are he and Vilkas related?” Irkand asked dryly.

            “It’s possible,” Lucan mused, taking a drink. “Black-Briar Reserve? You have expensive tastes.”

            “At my age, you can’t stomach anything else but the good stuff,” Irkand pointed out. “So tell me about Riverwood?”

            By the end of the first flagon, Irkand learned about the split in the village between its two most prominent citizens, both of whom had relatives in places of rank on either side of the war. Lucan had hoped his sister Camilla would marry Hadvar or Ralof because Sven was a lumberjack masquerading as a bard, Faendal was a mer, and Embry a drunk. Orgnar was apparently disinterested in marriage altogether. Now everybody hated everybody else while relying on each other.

            “The nobles don’t care,” Lucan complained as he drained his flagon. “Balgruuf does, but he’s going to have to choose a side.”

            “Yes, because neither side will accept nothing less than total victory,” Irkand agreed with a sigh. “And now we have dragons flying around. I feel sorry for whatever poor bastard Nord’s going to get stuck with the World-Eater.”

            “Maybe you’re the Dragonborn,” Farkas suggested from where he was talking to Camilla.

            “I hope not,” Irkand responded. “I don’t think the gods hate me that much.”

…

“I think the gods hate me.”

            A dragon was flying around the western watchtower, setting everything on fire, and Farkas was really regretting that last mead because he had a hangover. “We gotta fight it,” he told his brother and Irkand. “At least until the Hold Guard arrives.”

            “A dragon tore the Bruma Fourth apart in minutes,” Irkand said flatly.

            “That was the World-Eater, you said,” Vilkas countered. “Ordinary dragons can die.”

            “The gods hate me but not as much as I hate you,” the Knight of Arkay snarled.

            “You two need to get a room,” Farkas said simply. He could smell the lust. Why didn’t they just fuck their aggression out?

            Vilkas didn’t need to give him the finger as they ran towards the western watchtower. That was a bit rude.

            “Get back!” yelled the sole surviving guard, hiding in the tower. “He’s still out there!”

            “We noticed!” Irkand snapped. “Get on that fucking roof and give us some covering fire!”

            “Fuck that! I’m not moving until the guards get here!”

            “Of all the times to meet a Nord with half a brain,” Irkand muttered. He needed to work on his anti-Nord prejudice a bit.

            Then he yelled something that sounded very rude, even when spoken in a guttural language that thundered across the sky: “Hin monah lost siigonis!”

            It definitely got the dragon’s attention. “What did he say?” Vilkas demanded.

            Farkas thought hard. He remembered the old prayer to Kyne, where some Dragonish was used, and Kodlak’s translation. ‘Monah’ meant ‘mother’. “I guess dragons don’t like their mamas getting insulted.”

            “This man is a paladin. Arkay must have a warped sense of humour.”

            The dragon, bronze and green, swooped down to strafe them with fire. Irkand flung up a magical Ward, which made sense because he was a priest-warrior and priests used Restoration, and the flame spluttered harmlessly off it. “Zu’u Mirmulnir. Dii thur fen naak hin sil ko Sovngarde.”

            “Alduin nok tum voth dok ahrk ofaal vok voth pusojur!” Irkand retorted in the same guttural language. It was Dragonish and it only reinforced Farkas’ belief he was the Dragonborn.

            “What are you saying?” Vilkas demanded as the dragon swooped around for another attack.

            “I said his mother was a lizard and his overlord lies down with dogs and gets up with fleas,” Irkand responded mildly. “It’s an old Akaviri tactic – piss off the dragon and he wears out his Breath a lot faster. We just have to survive it.”

            “Oh lovely.” Vilkas readied his greatsword, as did Farkas.

            The two traded more insults and Farkas heard the word ‘mother’ a few times. Maybe even dragons loved their mamas. Mirmulnir was getting angrier and breathing more fire. The guard was praying to any Aedra or Daedra who would save him.

            “Keep him occupied,” Irkand ordered before bolting for the tower.

            “I’m going to fucking murder him,” Vilkas vowed.

            “Hey Mirmulnir!” Farkas yelled. “Your mama got her fleas from Alduin!”

            “We are going to die painfully,” Vilkas muttered.

            The dragon roared and rushed towards them. The twins immediately divided, running in opposite directions, and the dragon miscalculated his dive to plough facedown in the dirt. Irkand, who’d reached the top, jumped down when the beast was about halfway down and landed on his back. The strange shape of his daggers, curved blade and square point, became clear as they pried under the scales to bite into the flesh beneath.

            Farkas and Vilkas closed in to break the bat-wings. It probably sucked to be Mirmulnir at the moment.

            “Dovahkiin? Niid!” The dragon screamed with his last breath before cracking into sooty flame that became golden light.

            The light spiralled in and around Irkand until nothing but a skeleton.

            “I _knew_ you were the Dragonborn!” Farkas crowed.

            Irkand’s response used words in several languages that took the gods but for Arkay in vain, described improbable sexual acts, and ended with a heartfelt “FUCK YOU!” just as Irileth and the Hold guards arrived.


End file.
